


You promised.

by Beautiful_Stranger



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Heavy Angst, Original Character Death(s), be warned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-29
Updated: 2017-04-29
Packaged: 2018-10-25 10:46:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10762686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beautiful_Stranger/pseuds/Beautiful_Stranger
Summary: What if it was Mycroft that died in that game of theirs, and what if it was John that had to pull the trigger?





	You promised.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [angstlover](https://archiveofourown.org/users/angstlover/gifts).



> Based on this post.  
> http://addignisherlock.tumblr.com/post/160113692111/johnlockismyreligion-addignisherlock-liar

Sherlock stood there with a blank, dissociated look on his face. He watched his brother fall to the ground in slow motion, and just watched silently as the blood began to pool up underneath the man’s three piece suit. He glanced at the gun in John’s hand, smoke still coming out of the barrel. His eyes then went back to Mycroft, almost feeling like he was watching a specimen under a microscope. He wanted that to be the case. He then shook his head with a small laugh and looked around, half-expecting there to be cameras or for Mycroft to get back up and tell him not to be so sentimental. He looked back down to his brother’s slack form on the floor. “Okay.. That’s enough, we’ve got to move on to the next stage..” He watched Mycroft for a long moment. That’s when it hit him, and his face fell. He knelt down on the floor next to his brother and just looked at him with a softened expression.

John watched all this with a sort of untimely stoicism about him. He watched the detective slowly realize what was happening and it absolutely broke his heart. He went to step forward towards Sherlock, dropping the gun, but just then, Eurus’ voice could be heard over the speaker. “Come along, Sherlock, it’s time to do the next game.” John got angry on Sherlock’s behalf. He looked up to the telly where her face was and began to shout. “You piss off and give him a bloody moment!” There was a growl to his voice and after that he just focused on Sherlock who was now burrowed up into a ball laying his head on Mycroft’s chest. Something could be heard being muttered to the still frame. “Liar. You promised you would always be there for me.” He let out a shaky breath, burying his face in the man’s vest. “You promised…” Came the broken voice of a broken baby brother.

Sherlock’s breathing was still shaky and he just laid there, the slight hope that Mycroft would push him off or ruffle his hair still resonating a bit. Mycroft still smelled like that old, stale cologne that their father used to wear. After a bit, John walked over and put a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “Mate. We’ve got to move now.” He helped Sherlock up, but not before Sherlock reached into Mycroft’s pocket and took out his pocket watch, putting it in his own pocket and wiping the tears that were still coming from his eyes. John took Sherlock by the shoulders and looked him in the eyes, trying to remain as stoic as he could for Sherlock’s sake. “Soldiers…” He reminded, leading Sherlock into the next room.

_-A few weeks later-_

Sherlock sat there in the living room staring down at the pocket watch. John walked in, but he immediately stiffened at the sight of the watch. He didn’t say anything. Sherlock didn’t do things like normal people, and he had no idea how he was going to cope. Sherlock looked up at John, a cold, distant look in his eyes. He wanted to scream. He wanted to slam John’s head against the wall and ask him why he didn’t think about it even for a second. Why he didn’t try something different. The game seemed to be all about him, why didn’t John try to point it at him? Play the game master a bit. Instead, he stood, putting the pocket watch away as if John didn’t deserve to look at it. He walked up and just stared at John a bit. There were a thousand words in his expression, but none of them were spoken. Instead, he just gave John a small nod and walked out of the living room and back into his bedroom, his hideout as of late.

John sighed heavily and went over to the cabinet, getting out the liquor bottle and a glass. He poured himself a glass and just sat there in the silence of the living room. There were no words to be said. There was nothing that could fill the silence that would seem appropriate. Instead, he just remembered. He thought back to the strong, brave expression on Mycroft’s face right before he died. He thought back to that millisecond inbetween the bullet hitting the man’s chest and his body reacting as if it was one of those American cartoons and wouldn’t fall until he looked down and saw that he was off a cliff. He shook his head. This wasn’t the cartoons. This was life. His life- Sherlock’s life. On top of everything else that was discovered that day, he wished that Mycroft’s death didn’t have to be one of them. Still, it wasn’t his fault. Sherlock had to know that. All he could do was wait for Sherlock to come to him and make sure that he didn’t hurt himself. To make sure he wouldn’t do anything Mycroft wouldn’t want him to be doing.

He stood up and went to the counter to pour himself another glass, and that’s when he saw one of the umberellas that was left there by Mycroft months ago. He picked it up, feeling it in his hands. He didn’t deserve this. He went over to Sherlock’s door and put it on the handle, giving it a quick knock before getting the liquor bottle from the counter and heading upstairs. That’s when he heard the violin music fill up the flat. He was wrong. This was the only appropriate thing to fill the silence right now. He went up to his room, closing his eyes as he listened to what would inevitably be known to Sherlock forever as Mycroft’s song.


End file.
